


How Galaxies Collide

by LadyRegalia



Category: Transformers (IDW 2019), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Drift's Bank Account, Flashbacks, Love, M/M, Other, Ratchet's Hands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24405655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRegalia/pseuds/LadyRegalia
Summary: Drift allowed them to upgrade every part of Ratchet’s frame but his hands.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock & Ratchet, Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet
Comments: 3
Kudos: 49





	How Galaxies Collide

**Author's Note:**

> Drift and Ratchet belong to Alex Milne and James Roberts; I’ll return them once I’m done with them. Probably. Lerranik is my own.

**_your hand_ **

**_touching mine._ **

**_this is how_ **

**_galaxies_ **

**_collide._ **

****

**_\- Sanober Khan_ **

It was a simple enough endeavour to find a workshop that possessed the resources and readiness to give their frames a thorough upgrade. While Cybertronians were not beloved in most parts of the galaxy – for good reason – Cybertronian _credits_ were. And credits were one of the things Drift had in abundance.

The proprietor of the workshop, a tall alien from a race of beings where metallic augmentation was as much a part of their organic bodies as their six luminous eyes, blinked all six eyelids in a pattern of welcome when they saw Drift and beckoned the pair inside.

While Drift talked terms with the alien – whose name, when roughly translated into Cybertronian, was Lerranik - Ratchet was left to wander around the area of the workshop open to customers.

Drift re-joined Ratchet in a couple of breems.

“They okay with our blueprints?” asked Ratchet, jerking his helm towards the proprietor.

Drift nodded. “Lerranik says they’re able to do what we’ve asked for. They’re waiting for some shipments of alloys and the like to come in, so it’ll take about three solar cycles for us to be fully upgraded. Lerranik’ll spread out the works over this time.”

Ratchet hummed in acknowledgement, then grunted, without any heat, “Still think four layers is two too many.”

“Just enough for the sake of my old spark,” Drift teased, his optics resting like a caress on Ratchet’s faceplates. Ratchet felt them warm involuntarily and ducked his helm.

Stubbornness was also something that Drift had in spades.

_“The war’s over, Drift,” said Ratchet, digits clicking away at the holographic blueprint of his physical specs rotating in front of them. Each click removed a layer of armour over his holographic counterpart’s chestplate. “I don’t need five layers of armour. As it is, I’m bulky enough with two.”_

_“Glass is not a layer,” insisted Drift. His own servos lightly slapped Ratchet’s away from the display and restored the layers Ratchet had deleted. “You’ve only survived so far by the infinite grace of Primus. And just because the war’s over doesn’t mean the fighting’s stopped.”_

_“Primus has nothing to do with it. I -” and here Ratchet patted the pistol-filled holsters attached to the outsides of his thigh armour “- am a crack shot.” Drift made a noise like a choked engine restarting and rolled his optics. “And I have_ you _.”_

_Drift’s servos paused in their manoeuvring. He stared at the frozen blue outline of Ratchet instead of the real one sitting right across him. “Ratchet,” Drift said, softly. “I might not be enough one day.”_

_Ratchet’s servo reached across – through – the hologram and firmly squeezed one of Drift’s own. “Don’t be daft. We all gotta go some time.”_

_Drift gave him an indescribable look. A memory of a snowy cliffedge, a broken body, and a clasp of rust-infected servos rose unbidden in Ratchet’s mind._

_Ratchet ex-vented in defeat. “Fine. A compromise, then.”_

_“Four layers: for the sake of my old spark?”_

_“Four layers, for the sake of my even older audials. I like being able to move without feeling what Minimus must feel on a daily basis.”_

_“Thank you, Ratchet.”_

“How did you find out about this place?” Ratchet asked, shaking reminiscence from his helm as Lerranik directed him onto a round platform. Six free-floating non-sentient bots hovered at different levels around Ratchet’s frame, emanating beams of violet light at him from opposing directions.

“I’m a regular here,” Drift answered, glowing optics following the way the scan lights stroked Ratchet’s blocky frame along three axes. Ratchet noticed, and felt too old for the heat that had begun to simmer under his armour. “Lerranik’s an old contact from way back when.”

“This one always had the credits and the taste to match,” snorted Lerranik, aided by a universal translator. “This one’s preferences too have not changed, it seems.”

“I always did like a clean white base,” admitted Drift, as he was himself put through the scanner. “Gives all other colour accents a shot of intensity.”

“A surprise that this one was not shot into the Great Ether,” said Lerranik, without missing a beat. Their four lower metallic arms typed away on holographic keyboards at warp speed, while their two upper organic arms jabbed at the air in Drift’s general direction. “White against a silver-grey metalworld, _pfah_! A death-wish if one ever saw one.”

Ratchet found himself liking this Lerranik. “I don’t even need six eyes to see that he has one, Lerranik.”

Lerranik’s laugh was a two-toned lilt of chirrs and clicks. “And you? White base, and highlights the red of a sunset. You follow this one, too?”

Ratchet turned to look at the sleek, solid profile next to him. Warmth pulsed from his spark when he realised that Drift was looking back at him, a questioning smile on his lips.

“Yeah. I follow this one, too.”

* * *

On the third day, Drift brought Ratchet back to Lerranik’s workshop for their final round of upgrades.

They went into their separate chambers at the same time.

When Drift stepped out of his chamber, Ratchet’s vision was overwhelmed with white. Upon rebooting his optical feed, there stood Drift, looking like the heart of a star.

“Close your mouth,” Lerranik advised, as he busied past the medic. Ratchet obediently closed his mouthplates, but couldn't stop staring at Drift. Drift caught Ratchet’s unabashed gaze, held it, and then approached Ratchet with a small smile on his faceplates.

“Beautiful,” Drift murmured, digits tenderly brushing over Ratchet’s jaw.

“ _Me?_ Look at you! You’re – you’re – ”

“A work of art, this one is,” interrupted Lerranik. “Now –” Lerranik thrust a datapad with some glowing figures on it towards Drift. Ratchet got to the datapad first.

“ _Sweet Primus’ aft -_ ”

Drift paid, and quickly ushered Ratchet out of the shop.

* * *

It was only joors later, while nursing a cube of flavoured Energon back at their ship, when Ratchet realised that his servos were still cherry-red bright.

“No,” replied Drift, when asked about the apparent oversight. “Those aren’t theirs to touch.”

“Whaddaya mean, kid? You paid for it, they ought to have at least _..._ ”

But Ratchet got no further. Suddenly enveloped in a tantalizing electromagnetic field, Ratchet looked up to find a beloved face inches away from his own. Sword-roughened digits slowly traced the palm of a servo that Ratchet had left hanging in the air in his daze.

“Drift?” Ratchet’s voice wavered embarrassingly.

Drift smiled at him, slow and sensuous, then brought Ratchet’s captured servo to his lips and kissed the heart of Ratchet’s palm.

_Oh._

Ratchet decided that he wasn’t going to risk his dignity by speaking some more.

**Author's Note:**

> First fic. Thought it opportune to bring some sweet robot fluff into the universe during these times. Enjoy :)


End file.
